


Winter Rose

by Rumpabumbum



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, But no physical love in this with them, Friendship, Friendship is the heart of it, Margaery and Sansa's friendship is the greatest love, Margaery escapes her stupid death, Not a Love Story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-07-28 19:49:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7654399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rumpabumbum/pseuds/Rumpabumbum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt:  I am imploring you to use your creativity to find a way for Margaery to survive, and make her join Sansa up in the North ;-; (actually she can be a ghost it can be an au i just need her to go join sansa ;-;) -technicallypsychiccupcake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The handmaid curtsied and scurried out of the room. Margaery ran a hand through her neatly combed hair. This was it. Today Cersei would grovel before the Septon just as Margaery had, and answer for her sins. Loras would also stand trial, but at least he would come back to her and finally be safe.

Another knock at the door. Margaery sighed. “A moment, please.”

The door swung open. Soldiers burst into the room. They wore the sigil of a white falcon and crescent moon on their chests.

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Margaery. They didn’t speak. Margaery stepped back. One of the soldiers reached out to grab her. Margaery shoved him into her vanity, sending brushes and powders crashing to the floor Another used the distraction to seize her from behind. He smothered her mouth with his hand, but allowed room at her nose for her to breathe. She screamed despite being muffled. None of her guards came.

The soldiers carried her kicking and wriggling into the hall. Her handmaiden ay on the ground, blood running out of her nose. The guards were slumped over, pools of blood surrounding them. Margaery quit screaming. This was how it would end.

Except it didn’t. Instead, the soldiers swiftly bound her hands and feet, threw her into a carriage, and raced out of King’s Landing.

Margaery struggled to sit up. When she managed to, she realized she wasn’t alone. Petyr Baelish smirked down at her from his perch in the carriage seat.

“What is this?!” she demanded.

An explosion boomed. The carriage shook, nearly toppling over. Lord Baelish stuck his head out the carriage door. “A rescue operation, it appears,” he said.

“What do you mean?” asked Margaery.

“There’s a large cloud of smoke surrounding the area where the Sept of Baelor is,” said Baelish. “I believe thanks are due.”

He’s lying, thought Margaery. But she could smell it. They must have only been just beyond the city walls. Sulfur permeated the carriage.

Her brother. Her father. Her husband. They were all at the trial. Now they were all dead.

Margaery wouldn’t cry. This was Cersei’s doing. For Loras, Margaery would have cried a thousand tears, cut the throats of a thousand Lannister cowards, married a thousand boys just like Joffrey. But Cersei would never have the victory of wrenching her heart out. So Margaery locked it away, into the deepest pit of essence where it could fester until she could plot the Queen’s vicious demise.

For the next two days, Margaery didn’t speak. She imagined the millions of deaths Cersei could suffer each one more painful and humiliating than the last. None was good enough. She tossed every idea aside, patiently awaiting the one most befitting of the soulless witch.

“I’ve never been to the Eyrie before,” said Margaery, shortly after the troupe had stopped for breakfast at an inn. Margaery was flanked by soldiers. As if she had anywhere to go.

Lord Baelish set his cup down and stabbed his fork into a sausage. “And neither shall you for a long time, child, if ever.” He bit the sausage off the fork, reclining slightly in his chair.

“If you’re not taking me to the Eyrie, then why are we traveling north?” asked Margaery. “Are you going to sell me to Braavos or did you just want to create some distance before killing me?”

Baelish finished his meal and gulped another drink of water. “I’m taking you to a friend. She’s had a rough time since you last saw her. She could use someone she cares about, someone she doesn’t suspect of selling out her family.”

Sansa, thought Margaery. It had been so long since she had a friend other than her grandmother.

When her grandmother hatched the plan to marry Sansa to Loras, Margaery only cared for Highgarden and outplaying Cersei. But Sansa… sweet, brave, innocent, dutiful Sansa changed her heart. By the time Sansa forced herself to repeat her vows to Tyrion, Margaery viewed the girl as a sister.

Margaery’s joy faded as quickly as it came. Littlefinger was not an imp worthy of trust. He had some deeper motive. The conniving cur only did what benefited and empowered himself. Margaery had fallen from a queen to a mere pawn in another man’s quest for power.

She sat stone-faced, determined to withhold as much power from the leech as possible.

Littlefinger finished his meal. “Well, your majesty, we’d best continue on. I know you must be eager for your first glimpse of snow.”


	2. Chapter 2

As they traveled north, Margaery felt the air change from an early winter cool to a dead of winter freezing. Where the ground had once been brown and green, it was now blanketed in white.

Littlefinger offered her a blanket. Though she wore long sleeves, it wasn’t enough to keep her warm. Still she held out as long as she could before begrudgingly yanking the wool from the seat next to her.

They spent nights in inns that barely had fires to keep them from turning into ice. Days sluggishly rolled on like the hills as they moved from the lands of the Eyrie to northern lands.

On the 8th day of their journey, Margaery had enough. Littlefinger had droned on about his plans for Winterfell and King’s Landing. His twisted desires for Sansa and her mother sickened Margaery. After all the girl had been through, Sansa deserved better than a lusty rat supplanting her for her deceased mother. Margaery had done some terrible things , but she play a pawn in Littlefinger’s manipulations of her last friend.

The carriage had been trudging through snow for hours when the troupe halted.

“My apologies, my lord, but there’s too much snow ahead. The wheels will break if we move any further,” said one of the knights of the Vale.

“Of course,” said Littlefinger. “I hope you don’t mind bareback riding, you’re majesty,” said Littlefinger.

Margaery stepped out of the carriage and examined the horses. “This one should do,” she said.

She walked toward a black and white spotted horse with a white mane. “Excellent choice. You’ll be riding with Ser Waynwood then,” announced Littlefinger.

Margaery glared at the runt of a bastard. He smirked as he passed her to his own horse. “Didn’t think I’d let my greatest pawn run free, did you?”

Ser Waynwood climbed onto the stallion. “Send her up,” he ordered a squire.

The stronger of the squires held out his arms to Margaery, asking permission to lift her.

“I’m a queen, not some rag doll you pass around. If I can’t climb my own horse, then what use am I?”

Ser Waynwood grinned and held out his hand to Margaery. Margaery accepted it, only because her skirts prevented her from climbing on her own.

“Well done, your grace. In one move you’ve proven yourself more useful than my three squires,” whispered Waynwood.

Margaery snorted. “I should hope I had already proven myself more useful than the three of them. They look as though they share a brain.”

Waynwood chuckled as he pulled on the horse’s reins. He was the largest of Littlefinger’s knights. His arms squeezed Margaery’s rib cage, reminding her of the cell she lived in for five months, shrinking until she forced her own escape.

The confinement drove her thoughts back to the loneliness she felt in her cage. To some extent, she supposed she had always felt lonely, but those months without seeing her brother, her grandmother or even her husband exasperated those feelings. Had it not been for a bit of cunning, Margaery was sure she would never have escaped that torment.

Inspiration struck from those cold memories as the horses strolled down a snow covered path. Margaery and Waynwood trailed behind the rest of the troupe, followed only by the brute who had attempted to pick her up.

“You know, Ser Waynwood, my father has told me many tales of your bravery. How you killed 15 men in the siege of King’s Landing. What a strong knight you were.” Margaery turned her head and batted her eyes, just as she had to woo both of Cersei’s sons. This knight of the Vale was no different. Underneath his greying beard, she could see the feint blush of red on his cheeks. “And the maids used to whisper about how handsome you were and moan and weep that you were hidden behind the Vale, so far from Highgarden.”

“Your grace, you speak so kindly. But I’m such an old man now an-“ babbled the old knight.

Margaery placed a hand against his metal covered arm and squeezed, distracting the man. The horse slowed down as Waynwood tightened his grip on the reigns. The squire passed them, oblivious to Margaery’s flirtations.

“I see that those stories are still true, ser.”

The man blushed further, speechless. Margaery trailed her hand up the knight’s arm, pausing at his chest. She glanced down and blushed. Modesty was her calling card. “I’ve never been with a real man, ser. I mean, of course I bedded with my husband but….he was just a boy in so many ways. But you’re no boy, are you?”

Waynwood’s grey eyes widened. “Your grace! I mean no offence, but I could not! You’ve just lost your husband. I know these times are tough, but you don’t know what you are saying.”

Margaery turned around on the horse, surprising herself with how easily she maneuvered it. “I know exactly what I want.” She stroked his cheek delicately. “Would you deny your queen something she so desperately wanted. Something as simple as to be loved.”

Waynwood looked past Margaery. She knew he was making sure the rest of the knights were far off. Of course they were. “No your grace. I could never.”

Margaery smiled. “Then promise me. Promise to be mine.”

He looked at her as if in a trance. “I swear it, my queen.”

Margaery leaned in, gently brushing her lips against the knight’s. Waynwood shuttered, then leaned in himself, still uncertain of what he was doing.

Margaery pressed both hands against his armored chest and shoved with all her strength.

“AAAHHHHH!!!!” screamed Waynwood. He tumbled backward off the horse, landing with a thud as his head smacked against the ground.

Margaery twisted herself around on the horse. She could see one of the knights returning from the curve in the road, but he was at least half a league away.

She grabbed the reins and pulled them, turning the horse around. She dug her heels into the horse, spurring it on.

The horse galloped down the path. Margaery glanced back and smiled, seeing that the rest of the knights were far out of sight. She reached the three-prong forked road. Fresh tracks had recently been made on the left route. That should confuse the knights enough to at least create some distance for her to take the middle path.

Margaery whipped her reins again. The horse whinnied and galloped once more.

The wind blew through Margaery’s hair, reminding her what it meant to feel free. She relished the feeling.

After about three more leagues of running, the horse slowed to a trot. The moonlight illuminated the path, but would dim as the clouds came. She was cold and tired now. But there was no inn in sight.

Margaery looked down. She was half asleep, the rocking of the horse dulling her senses. Footprints began appearing on the side of the path. Blearily, Margaery looked up. A short distance away, she could make out the glow of a fire.

She could not keep going. She was hungry, freezing, and sleep-deprived. Her horse needed water, or else surely he would keel over by nightfall tomorrow. And where was she next guaranteed to see a person?

Margaery dug her heel into the horse’s side, urging it to move forward. It slowly trotted again. As it neared the fire, Margaery pulled up on the reins slightly. The horse stopped. Margaery climbed down, landing awkwardly in the soft snow with her heels, but maintaining her balance. She led the horse forward as her toes froze in the snow. She wished she still had the blanket, however, Littlefinger had taken that with him from the carriage.

When she was mere feet away from the fire, she could make out the forms of two people. One was stocky-ish with short brown hair, the other tall and strong looking with short blonde hair.

“Would you welcome a lonely traveler to your fire?” asked Margaery, too tired to walk any closer. She began feeling dizzy. The fire began moving.

The blonde one turned their head. “Queen Margaery?”

The fire began to fade out, and everything turned dark as Margaery fell.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I initially intended this to be a two-part piece. But then inspiration struck and I thought it would be four chapters. Well, inspiration struck again, and the story will go beyond what I originally planned. I hope you enjoy!

_Margaery shielded her eyes from the bright, bold sun shining at the apex of the sky. She looked down and stared at the dark green grass between her toes._

_At the sound of clanking wood and children’s laughter, she jerked her head up. She watched as her brothers, Garlan and Loras, fought each other with their wooden sticks in the open field beside the castle’s open gate. She couldn’t help but smile._

_Another higher pitched laugh caught Margaery’s ears. She turned around. A little girl no more than three years old with wild brown hair ducked down to pick flowers at the bush. Margaery walked closer, curious about the girl. The girl smiled as she reached for a rose. Margaery instinctively reached forward as the girl’s hand clasped around the stem. The girl shrieked and yanked her hand away. Three deep dots began oozing with blood. Margaery looked down at her own hand, comparing the scars. They were the same._

_The girl wailed and hollered as Margaery remembered what was happening. From behind the bush, her Grandmother came running. It was odd to see the old woman move so fast, lifting her skirts to reach the child quicker. “Oh Margaery,” sighed Olenna. She took out a handkerchief and wrapped it around the girl’s hand. “Hush now, my little flower.”_

_Little Margaery hiccupped, but tears still trickled down her face. Olenna sat down in the grass and pulled the girl into her lap._

_Margaery slowly came forward and sat down next to the two. They never glanced at her._

_“Look now, my love,” whispered Olenna to the girl. Olenna carefully plucked a rose from the bush. “It’s quite a beautiful flower, isn’t it?”_

_The girl nodded. “It hurt me,” she whimpered._

_“Margaery, these flowers are called roses. They smell wonderful, don’t they? And they’re beautiful. Almost as beautiful as you,” Olenna tickled the girl, eliciting a laugh from her. “But they have prickly points here, do you see? These are thorns. They protect the roses from animals that would want to eat them. They’ve adapted to survive. As beautiful as these flowers are, they are equally dangerous, love.”_

_As if to prove her point, Olenna pricked herself with a thorn. A small dollop of blood rose to the surface of her finger. The little girl’s eyes widened in horror. “Grandma, it hurt you!”_

_Olenna chuckled. “Don’t fret over me, my flower. I’ve been pricked many times. It makes me tough. One day, you will be even tougher than me.”_

_The girl smiled wide. She hopped off Olenna’s lap. Olenna stood and took the girl’s uninjured hand to lead her back to the castle._

When the scene began to fade, Margaery wanted to scream. She wanted to stay here forever.

Everything turned back to black. Margaery opened her eyes. Snow covered the ground with sunlight reflecting brightly off of it. She could hear a sound similar to a crackling fire but more muffled. She rolled over. There was a fire burning a few feet away from her.

Slowly her hearing cleared and Margaery realized she was covered in blankets. Sweating even. She pushed a couple of blankets off and sat up, immediately regretting the decision. Everything began moving again, though slower this time. She groaned and held her head in her hands.

“Brienne! Brienne she’s awake!” called a voice. He sounded familiar, though Margaery couldn’t place why. She looked to her left. A young man with a boyish face and dark brown hair ran over to her. Her vision was becoming stable and less dizzy by the time he knelt down next to her. “How do you feel, your grace?” he asked. He placed a hand against her forehead. “Still a bit warm.”

“Move Pod,”ordered a voice Margaery knew at once. She looked up. Brienne of Tarth came striding toward her from where three horses were tied to a tree.

“Brienne,” smiled Margaery. She sounded like a frog in the in the twilight hours by the pond in Highgarden.

Brienne knelt down next to her. “Your grace, please drink this,” said Brienne. She handed her a flask. Margaery opened it and drank. She hadn’t realized how thirsty she was until the water reached her tongue. She savored the feeling, pouring more into her mouth. She almost whined as Brienne pulled the flask away. “You’re dehydrated, your grace. You don’t want to drink too much at once.”

Margaery nodded. The three sat in silence for a moment before Pod asked, “Why are you here?”

“Not now, Pod,” Brienne growled through clenched teeth.

“It’s quite alright, Brienne,” said Margaery. Her voice still croaked a little, but not as bad. She turned toward the boy. “I was on my way to Winterfell to visit Sansa and congratulate her on her wedding. My horse wandered off on its own and I lost my traveling party. So here I am.”

Pod nodded. “Is the King coming North too?”

“Podrick, why don’t you go fetch Margaery more water,” snapped Brienne.

“But I-“ started Pod.

“Water for the Queen. Now.” Brienne ordered.

Pod quickly grabbed a bucket and dashed into the forest.

Margaery chuckled. “Where did you pick him up at?”

“It’s a long story,” sighed Brienne. “He’s Tyrion’s former hand man, Podrick Payne. He asked to squire for me and refused to leave me alone.”

Margaery smirked and scooted the last blanket up to her neck. “Sounds like you’ve had quite the adventure then.”

Brienne looked down. “You had a fever your grace. And you’re hardly dressed to be in the North. What really happened?”

Margaery huffed. Her foggy breath disseminated into the air. “Petyr Baelish. He kidnapped me. Told me I would be a gift for Sansa. And I escaped. I was trying to get as far from him as possible when I came down the path last night.”

Brienne stood. “That was three nights ago. You’ve been sleeping ever since.” She walked to a small stack of wood and placed it into the fire. “We’ve traveled a ways North since then. I carried you on my horse with me. I hope you don’t mind.”

Margaery tugged the blanket tighter. “No, of course not.”

“There’s a village a few miles north of us,” said Brienne. She sat down next to Margaery holding a skinned rabbit. “We’re stopping here until a few hours after sundown, but any merchant would be more than happy to take the queen back-“

Margaery cut her off. “I’m going north. I can’t go back.”

Brienne quirked an eyebrow. “Why not?”

“There’s nothing to go back to.” Margaery thought back to her grandmother and how strong and tough she was. She swallowed down the tears and pressed on. “They’re dead. Loras. Father. Tommen. They’re dead. Besides, if I go back Cersei would kill me herself. Any man or woman in King’s Landing would drag me to the bitch’s mercy. I would never make it back to Highgarden alive.” Margaery refused to call her queen. There was no one else to rule the kingdom, but Cersei was no queen.

Brienne gazed into the fire and sat quietly. “I’m sorry, your grace.” From the corner of her eye Margaery saw Podrick struggling to carry the large bucket of water past the trees. “Podrick and I are heading to Winterfell. Sansa and her brother are waging war against the Boltons. I don’t know if she’s even still alive, but I will not break my oath. I must protect her.”

Margaery stood. “Then let’s go, my good lady. I believe it is still a long journey to Winterfell.”

Brienne looked up to Margaery. Margaery had little left in the world, save for her friend. That was not about to slip away too.


	4. Chapter 4

The North was barren. Trees bent under the weight of snow. Wolves roamed farther south than Margaery would have imagined.

When she saw her first wolf, Margaery believed she was hallucinating. It was nearly silver in color and similar in size to a small bear. It sniffed along the outside of some abandoned rabbit holes. She was still running a slight fever and the beast looked larger than any her father had described from his war efforts in Robert’s Rebellion.

Margaery tugged tight on the reins, stopping her horse in its tracks. Brienne, who had been leading them, continued on, unaware of the danger.

Podrick road next to her and stopped as well. “That’s a direwolf, your grace. They’ve been coming farther south with the weather. Looking for rabbits and chickens I suppose. As long as you avoid them though, they won’t harm you.”

Margaery glanced away from the beast and toward Podrick. He smiled kindly. Margaery nodded and urged her horse to move on.

A week later, Margaery began to wonder if Winterfell wasn’t some mythical castle. They had seen few people, most moving south. They found villages of only women and children. “Our husbands are fighting for Lord Bolton”, most had said. When one was kind enough to let Brienne, Margaery and Podrick sleep in their home for a night, Margaery listened as the woman prayed to the old gods to protect her husband and sons and bring a swift end to the Stark uprising.

“It won’t be much farther, your grace,” said Brienne. Brienne’s horse slowed as it reached the top of the hill. Margaery trotted up slowly. Over the top, she could see a flag waving in the distance. Then she could see the grey walls upholding it.

Winterfell wasn’t as grand as King’s Landing or High Garden, but it was fortified with stone and snow. Snow covered the top of the walls surrounding the castle and ice hung from the ledges of the balcony.

Off in the distance, Margaery could see a large dent in the snow. Hoof prints. A smaller trail of hoof prints converged with the larger one.

“He’s here,” muttered Margaery. Littlefinger had time to get into Sansa’s head then. To turn Sansa against her, if need be.

“Lady Sansa is smart,” said Brienne, “She knows what she’s doing.”

Brienne led the way down to the castle. When they were almost a league away from the castle, a smile spread across her face. The direwolf sigil hung over proudly around the castle. Brienne’s horse picked up its pace. Margaery whipped her horse’s reins to keep up, but Podrick lagged behind unable to lug their supplies and gallop on his horse.

The gate was open when they arrived. A balding man with a grey beard and dark eyes stood there. He scowled for a moment, but smiled a bit upon seeing Brienne. He looked at Margaery and quirked an eyebrow.

“She’s under my protection, Ser Davos,” said Brienne. “A close friend of Lady Sansa.”

Davos nodded. “There’s a feast in the Great Hall. It may be best to wait until after, my lady.”

Margaery noticed relief flood Brienne’s face.

Margaery shook her head lightly kicked her horse to move forward. “It can’t wait. I need to see Sansa. I have urgent news for her.”

“Quite urgent,” agreed Brienne.

Once inside the castle walls, Margaery jumped off her horse. A young northern boy ran over to grab its reins. “Take it to the stable,” ordered Ser Davos from behind Margaery.

“Which way, ser?” asked Margaery.

Davos glanced once more toward Brienne. “I’ll join later. I need to help Podrick.”

Margaery looked back. Podrick’s horse was still struggling to carry the supplies past the gate.

“Very well,” said Davos. He led her to the castle door.

The building was nearly as cold as the outside. Inside servants were trying to light fires in the stone halls. The walls towered high, as light filtered through large windowns. Davos led her up some stairs, then down a hall. The grey walls of the hall shimmered reflecting the sunlight.

Faint cries of “The King in the North” echoed in the hall, growing louder the farther down Davos led her.

He stopped in front of two open doors. Margaery peered in. Men in fur coats and tunics stood cheering and yelling. Some wore fine looking tunics and coats. They had trimmed beards and looked well kept. Others wore makeshift clothing from goats. Their beards needed grooming and they were covered in dirt.

No one noticed Margaery as she slipped into the room. She didn’t recognize a face in the room, until she saw Littlefinger casually leaning in the corner. He didn’t notice her. His eyes were locked on the front of the room.

Margaery slowly glided by the men, staying close to the wall. Their chanting quieted and they sat, eagerly discussing their newly appointed King.

She reached the front. A man with dark hair tied back and a small beard smiled as his lips moved. The King in the North. He turned his head and when he did, Margaery’s heart sped up.

She would recognize that red hair anywhere. Sansa looked so regal, so confident. Her girlish beauty had matured into the beauty of a woman. The wolf’s pelt she wore complimented her eyes marvelously. She wasn’t the poor princess trapped in King’s Landing. She was Lady Stark of Winterfell.

Margaery stepped forward, affording Sansa and the king as their due respect. Her boots thudded softly.

Margaery watched as Sansa looked behind the man. Her eyes widened immediately and she stood.

The king turned around. He looked back and forth between Sansa and Margaery, confusion on his face.

Sansa stepped around the table and approached cautiously. The king stood as well.

Margaery bowed her head. “My Lady I-“

“You’re dead,” said Sansa. She took another step. The room quieted significantly with only a few whispers remaining. “We received a raven. You’re dead. And Tommen. And Loras.”

“I escaped,” whispered Margaery. She stared into Sansa’s eyes. They betrayed no emotions, a steely blue curtain.

Sansa stepped forward once more. She was an arm’s length away. Knights had gathered around the girls, ready to cut down Margaery at a moment’s notice.

The girls stared each other down for a several moments. Margaery refused to back down.

Then Sansa broke. She rushed forward encircling Margaery in her arms. Margaery stumbled back a step from Sansa’s exuberance.

Margaery breathed in and smiled. The smell of lemons reminded her of their afternoons eating lemon cakes in the gardens at King’s Landing.

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” murmured Sansa.

Margaery chuckled softly. “Me too.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slightly shorter chapter. Wanted to focus mostly on Sansa and Margaery here.

Sansa immediately began making preparations for Margaery. She ordered two servants to prepare a chamber for Margaery and another to run begin boiling water for a bath for her.

“Find a spare chair, please,” Sansa asked her handmaiden. She cleared away her own food to make a spot for Margaery at her table.

“That won’t be necessary,” rasped voice from behind Margaery. Lord Baelish offered his own chair to Margaery. “It would be my honor for the queen to sit in my chair.”  
Margaery glanced from Baelish to the man who sat next to Sansa. His eyes widened at Baelish’s comment, his mouth dropping open a smidge. Margaery noticed the small scars over his eyes. His face was cute in a boyish way, like Loras had been. The scars, however, gave him a rougher, edgier appearance. He looked more fitting to be named King than any of her husbands had.

“Thank you, Lord Baelish,” said Sansa. She smiled up to Margaery and gestured down to the seat. 

Margaery sat down. Littlefinger remained standing over her shoulder. “Tell us, your grace, how did you come so far north?” 

Margaery glared at Littlefinger, but Sansa answered before she could speak. “Lord Baelish, could you ask the seamstresses to prepare proper clothes for queen Margaery? I’m afraid I don’t have anything in her size.”

Littlefinger stared at Sansa for a moment. Margaery could feel the tension from his eyes. “Of course my lady.” He bowed and quickly strode from the room.  
A servant placed a plate in front of Margaery. “You must be starving,” smiled Sansa. Margaery nodded.

Before taking her first bite, she glanced once more to the man sitting next to Sansa. He watched her from the corner of his dark eyes, suspicious of her. Sansa glanced behind her. “Oh, sorry. Jon this is Queen Margaery. Margaery, this is my brother, Jon.”

Margaery eagerly nodded her head. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, good sir. Your sister and I were fast friends in King’s Landing.” Jon glanced warily at Sansa, looking for her a sign from her. Sansa placed a hand on his shoulder. “Glad to have ye, your grace,” muttered Jon.

Margaery dug into her food, savoring each bite. The food wasn’t as immaculate as the food in King’s Landing, but anything beat the rabbits and half rotten berries she had lived off for the last couple of weeks.

She calculated what she would say to Sansa. She desperately needed to speak to the girl alone. Away from listening guards with curious ears and weak wills. Away from anyone associated with Baelish. But now Sansa spoke softly with her brother while a Knight of the Vale lingered in the corner, not far from the table. Margaery couldn’t risk speaking yet.  
By the time Sansa finished speaking to Jon, Margaery was swallowing her last bite of food. Sansa scanned the room, then turned to Margaery. “Would you like a tour of the castle while your bath is prepared?” 

Margaery nodded and stood. “I’d be honored.”

Sansa stood and led Margaery out of the hall. The corridor was filled with northerners and servants bustling in both directions. 

“Winterfell has changed since I left,” said Sansa. She held Margaery’s wrist and casually led her through the throng of men. “You know it was burned after Theon’s coup. The south wall is especially charred. We’ve ordered repairs for it. All the best masons in the North should arrive within the next fortnight to fortify the wall. The Boltons were always too preoccupied with conquering to make the needed repairs. Such a shame reall” Sansa pulled her faster as the number of people the passed dwindled. She led Margaery down a maze of corridors, babbling on and on about the walls and reparations until she found an empty corridor. She opened a door leading to a balcony and yanked Margaery out with her.

Margaery shivered. She still didn’t have proper clothing, wearing the same dress she had traveled in all the way north. It was tattered and caked in dirt now. Sansa noticed as Margaery hugged her arms across her chest. She removed the wolf’s pelt from around her shoulders and laid over Margaery’s. 

The balcony overlooked the castle grounds. Margaery peered over the railing. She could see Brienne walking beside Podrick. She seemed to be chastising the poor boy about something. He probably deserved it, but Margaery still pitied him. 

She turned around. Sansa was looking at her, her ice blue eyes staring straight into Margaery’s eyes. “Tell me. What happened?”

Margaery told her. She told her about Baelish kidnapping her, about his plans to offer her as a gift of sorts, about her escape, about finding Brienne, about traveling through the northern villages. Sansa remained quiet, her eyes rarely leaving Margaery’s face.

“I needed to warn you, Sansa. Don’t trust Littlefinger. He’s planning something, I know it. I don’t want to see you hurt in his quest for glory,” said Margaery.

Sansa smirked sadly. “I’m not the naïve girl you knew in King’s Landing, Margaery,” said Sansa. She braced her hand on the edge of the wall and walked down along the ledge. Snow gathered on her glove as she pushed her hand along. Sansa watched as the pile grew larger at her hand. Margaery walked beside her. “I know Petyr. Petyr is a liar and a rat. Petyr will do anything to for power and he will use power to get anything he wants. I know what he is.”

“Then why do you allow him to stay?” asked Margaery. 

Sansa looked at her. “Because I know him. Trust me Margaery,” said Sansa. Sansa took Margaery’s hand. “I’m sorry about your father and Loras. I know how much they meant to you.”

For the first time since reuniting with the girl, Margaery saw a shine of emotion in Sansa’s eyes. Sansa was the one person who would understand how it felt to have everyone you loved ripped away. Margaery pulled her into a hug and allowed herself to mourn for the first time. Sansa held Margaery tight as Margaery’s tears spilled into Sansa’s auburn hair. It felt nearly therapeutic, they way Sansa rubbed circled on her back to soothe her.

“Anything you need, just ask for,” whispered Sansa as Margaery’s sobs faded away.

Margaery felt rage replace her sadness. Cersei had caused her pain. Cersei had caused Sansa's pain. “I need to avenge them. I need for Cersei to pay for all the hell she has put us through. You and me,” she seethed.

Sansa stepped back from Margaery. The way that Sansa could switch from having her emotions strewn all over her face to looking as emotionless as the stone walls of Winterfell frightened Margaery. Something deep within Sansa had changed. But that didn’t matter now. What mattered was whether she would have a partner in her war against Cersei Lannister.

“We shall have it,” said Sansa.


	6. Chapter 6

The water turned from clear blue to dirty brown as soon as Margaery sat in the water. A servant girl dipped a rag below water and scrubbed Margaery’s face until it stung. She then moved down the rest of Margaery’s body, rubbing through the layers of dirt resistant to the water.

            Despite the raw red of her skin and the constant tugging when the servant washed her hair, Margaery savored her bath. She hadn’t had one since leaving King’s Landing. It felt nearly like a rebirth to watch the mud and filth floating in the water.

            Margaery dismissed her servant as she toweled off. The first of the dresses that Sansa had ordered tailored for her lay on a bench against the wall. It was a simple dress. Dark, like the Stark colors, with a simple sash to tie around the waist, rather than intricate lacings that she had fancied at home.

            Margaery dropped the towel and pulled on her small clothes before picking up the dress. There was a soft knock on the door. Margaery figured it was the servant girl, returning to empty her water. “Come in.”

            Instead, Jon pushed the door open and looked down immediately once he saw Margaery wearing next to nothing. “My apologies, your grace. Amarya said you were finished with your bath.”

            Margaery shrugged and slipped the dress on. “It’s quite alright, Lord Snow.” Margaery wasn’t shy about her body. Bodies were something to be admired, not hidden out of sight. Except when the world was hurdling to a frozen end, as it seemed to be doing now.

            Jon looked back up once Margaery had the dress covering her and she began tying the sash. The dress was a little loose on Margaery, but she figured that once the seamstresses took proper measurements, her clothes would be adjusted.

            “I wanted to properly welcome you to Winterfell,” said Jon. “Sansa’s told me much about you. You were kind to her in King’s Landing, when no one else was. Thank you. You don’t know how much it means to me that someone was looking after her with true intentions.”

            Margaery’s chest pinged with guilt. Her intentions weren’t always true. Her smile remained unflinching though. “We were good for each other. Her companionship was the only genuine relationship I formed in that cursed city.” At least that much was true.

            Jon nodded. “Still, thank you, your grace. There’s wine and extra boar in the meeting room, if you’d like.”

            Margaery adjusted her hair and watched as Jon’s eyes lingered on her longer than they should. “That’s very kind,” she walked forward and pecked Jon on the cheek, as was common courtesy for exits in Highgarden. Jon, however, seemed surprised by the gesture and his cheeks tinged pink. “I can see myself there. I will see you tomorrow, I suppose, Lord Snow.”

            Jon nodded again and stepped backward. “Goodbye, Queen Margaery.”

            Margaery was no longer the queen. Her husband was dead, and as far as the kingdom knew she was too. But she wouldn’t correct him.

            Jon walked away and Margaery headed in the opposite direction, finding the meeting room door open. Brienne and Podrick were seated there to, feasting on boar and gourds. Sansa sat with them, sipping a goblet of wine.

            Margaery had hoped to find Sansa alone. For all she had shared about her own journey north, Sansa had said almost nothing about her life between Joffrey’s death and the reclamation of Winterfell. Rumors regarding Sansa crept up in every corner of King’s Landing. Some whispered that Sansa had become a whore for Littlefinger, some that she sailed to Dragonstone and joined liege with Stannis Baratheon, and others that she had been captured by the Brotherhod without Banners. Margaery needed to know what truly happened.

            She was certain, however, that Sansa would not tell her with the potential prying ears of eavesdroppers and little birds around.

            She sat down next to Podrick, across from Sansa and sipped her own wine.

            “I had a handmaiden lay out one of my mother’s old night gowns for you in your chambers for when you choose to retire,” said Sansa. “It may be slightly long on you still, but it’s closer to your size than any of my clothes. We should have better clothes for you tomorrow though.”

            “Thank you, Sansa,” smiled Margaery.

            Sansa pulled out a parchment from her coat and slid it across the table to Margaery. “It’s a bit late now, but if you would like to write a letter tonight, I can make sure the new Maester sends a raven at dawn.”

            Margaery bit her lip. Sansa meant to send a raven to Highgarden to her Grandmother. It was a great risk for the Starks. Should the raven be intercepted, the Lannister’s would know of the Starks’ coup of Winterfell, as well as Margaery’s escape from King’s Landing. Still, Margaery would give most anything to contact her grandmother once more and let her know that the Tyrells were still strong.

            Margaery nodded. “Yes. I’ll send a servant once I’m finished.”

            “No need for that,” said Sansa. “I can stay with you…or if you’d like some privacy, Brienne will stand guard outside and bring me the sealed letter when you are done.”

            Margaery sipped more of her wine. Trusting Margaery to seal whatever contents without knowing fully what she was writing was another risk of its own kind for Sansa. “I think I’d like to be alone for this, if you do not mind.”

            “I understand.” Sansa stood. “Brienne, I’ll be in my chambers. Do as Margaery asks until she is done.”

            Brienne bowed her head. “Yes, my lady.”

            Sansa walked over to Margaery’s side and paused. “Goodnight, your grace. Send for me, if you need anything.”

            As much as Margaery adored hearing her title roll off the people’s tongues, something within Margaery twinged whenever Sansa said it. It was a formality unbefitting of friends. “I will. Goodnight, Sansa.”

            Sansa strode out to the hall. Margaery reached for the ink that Sansa left behind and took the quill. She was scarcely aware of Brienne and Podrick leaving her alone in the room as she wrote her letter.

            As Margaery wrote, she kept her words formal and dispassionate. She did not tell how she left King’s Landing, only that she was now in Winterfell. As queen, Margaery knew that intercepted letters were merely skimmed for information, not thoroughly read. If she maintained a dull tone in her words, she could bypass detection. Still, Olenna would not believe it was truly Margaer without a sign. In the bottom corner of the parchment, she drew a rose.

            Margaery read over her letter. There was so much more she wanted to tell her grandmother, like that she loved her. But any unnecessary detail would risk Olenna’s life, and Margaery could not bare to lose another loved one. She rolled up the parchment and left the hall. She handed the paper to Brienne, who quickly left to Sansa’s chambers.

            “Late evening, your grace?” asked a voice from behind her. Podrick, who still stood guard by the door, reached for his dagger. Margaery held up her hand and he slowly removed his hand from the pommel.

            “I was still feeling famished, Lord Baelish,” Margaery said, turning to face the lord. “And I couldn’t resist a cup of wine before bed.”

            “Careful, then, my lady,” warned Petyr. “I do believe that is how Cersei began her decent.”

            The comparison felt like a slap, but Margaery didn’t allow her polite smile to falter.

            “I must offer my apologies for leaving you on the road,” Baelish hissed. “We lost your trail after your horse…took off. How fortunate that you stumbled upon Lady Brienne.”

            “Yes, quite fortunate,” agreed Margaery. She began to turn. Podrick held out a lamp to Margaery, which she accepted with a curt nod. “Remain, here.” She whispered to him. Podrick nodded, though looked confused.

            Margaery walked down the hall, followed by Littlefinger. His long strides allowed him to quickly fall into step with her. Once beyond Podrick’s hearing, he said, “You had the opportunity to return south, yet you continued north, despite knowing my intentions for you.”

            Margaery didn’t turn, keeping her focus down the hall. “There was no opportunity. Cersei’s paranoid, mad. She likely has the entirety of the City Watch scouring the sewers for a hint of my remains. Besides, it would have been a two month journey to Highgarden with supplies, which I had none of. Which is why you allowed me to escape: you guarantee that Sansa gets her distraction with none of the blame for kidnapping me.”

            Baelish held his hands behind his back as he walked, brown eyes pinched at Margaery. “You always were a clever girl. I once asked you if you wanted to be a queen, your grace. Do you remember what you told me?”

            Margaery slowed a half-step. Hardly noticeable to anyone who had not been matching her step for step. “Yes, I do.”

            “And now?”

            Margaery eyed Baelish from her periphery. He wasn’t smirking, merely looking straight ahead, as she had been. “Now I am still the Queen.”

            “Yes, the queen of three dead kings. The queen who rules over nothing. I, on the other hand, am a lowly Lord. Yet, I command the armies of the Vale and played the valiant knight to Lady Sansa. She may not trust me fully, but she does on some level. We have an understanding, Sansa and I. We know what it is to be underestimated and walked on. There’s a power in being so lowly. Power and fire. And there is power in name. Power in name can get you only so far, your grace.”

            Margaery tensed. Despite the bond she shared with Sansa, Littlefinger had the power and the people. He had armies. Margaery had nothing. The support of Highgarden, of the smallfolk in King’s Landing meant nothing here.

            Littlefinger stopped in front of a chamber door. “I believe these are your chambers, your grace. I pray your sleep is befitting of a queen.”

            He walked away, boots echoing down the hall. Margaery pressed her hand against the door and stared after Baelish. Margaery was self-aware enough to acknowledge that she wanted power. Always had. To survive in the North, for both Sansa’s and her own sakes, she would need to fortify her own power.


	7. Chapter 7

 

            The wind screamed like a grieving mother through the nights. During her first few nights in Winterfell, would lie awake in bed, imagining the screeching women trying to outrun the blast, the men shielding their children as if that could save them, her brother standing alone before the septons pleading for mercy as they had rehearsed.

            She slept little those first few nights, awakened in the late morning by handmaidens who had been ordered to silently check on Margaery when she wasn’t down for breakfast.

            On the third day Sansa, guarded constantly by Brienne, introduced her to the lords of the north. Some wore fake smiles and politely greeted her, welcoming her to the north. Most, however, showed her disdain. They glared at her, and would whisper to each other in front of her. They didn’t trust her, not after her history with the Lannisters and Baratheons.

            “Don’t worry,” Sansa told her at dinner in Sansa’s chambers, “The north is full of stubborn old men. Give them time and they will come to accept you.”

            Margaery swallowed a bite of her mutton. “I understand. Trust should be earned, not offered as a welcome present.” After a moment of silence she breached the subject she’d been pondering for days now “Sansa, you’ve yet to tell me what happened when you fled King’s Landing.”

            Sansa looked up from her plate. “There’s not much to tell. I went to the Vale to stay with my aunt. When she died, Littlefinger escorted me back to Winterfell and he returned at my behest to help Jon take back the castle.”

            Margaery crossed her arms and stared Sansa down. “We both know there’s more. How did you come across Brienne? And Littlefinger left you with the Boltons, yes? I’ve been honest with you. Be honest with me.”

            Sansa squinted her eyes at Margaery and frowned as though Margaery was a shiny metal obscured by the ocean water lapping against the shore. “I have been honest. I have never lied to you, your grace.”

            “Sansa-“Margaery began but was cut off by Ser Davos clearing his throat.

            “Pardon me, my lady and your grace, but King Jon requests Lady Sansa’s presence.”

            Sansa stood and faced Davos. “Is it dusk already?” Davos nodded. “Very well, Margaery please come with me.”

            Margaery began to stand but stopped as Davos held out a hand toward Sansa. “My lady, I’m not sure this meeting is appropriate for-”

             “Ser Davos, I’m sure my brother will be more than accommodating for Queen Margaery. We have nothing to hide from her, she’s a trusted friend of Winterfell.”

            Davos nodded and escorted the women to the feast hall that he had led Margaery to upon her arrival. Margaery dissected Sansa’s words as she followed the knight. Sansa’s trust in Margaery only went so far. With any official business, Margaery was an honored guest, a loyal friend endowed to the deepest of secrets; yet Sansa was building a wall around her personal secrets. Margaery was only allowed to know so much before Sansa would shut her down. It stung.

Even now, Margaery could see the shadows of some haunting in Sansa’s eyes. They crept across her face in moments when she believed Margaery was distracted. Margaery wanted to ask Sansa again, but held her tongue. Pushing the girl further would only irritate Sansa. Coaxing the truth would take more skill.

Davos opened the door to the meeting hall. Lords of the Vale and Winterfell, along with the red-bearded wildling sat around the table. Littlefinger sat at the far corner, hands folded together over the table. Jon stood at the head, hands baring down on the table. Margaery could felt the steely glares of the lords baring into her. She ignored them and took her seat next to Sansa at the head of the table. The great doors shut and the King in the North spoke.

“Thank you, my lords, for coming. After deliberation, I have settled on a plan. We must prepare an army to head to the wall. The Night’s Watch is outnumbered 10 to 1 at least; it will not withstand a white walker attack.”

Margaery would have laughed had everyone else not remained eerily silent. White walkers had been gone for over a thousand years. In the Reach, they were nothing more than a fable her brothers would tell before going to bed.

After a moment, one of the Northern lords, lord Glover if Margaery remembered correctly, spoke, “My King, if what you say about the white walkers is true, sending more men would be a waste of lives. Would it not be wiser to move south?”

“We could flee to the southern shores of Dorne and be no safer, Lord Glover. Winter is here and a blizzard is coming for all of Westeros,” said Jon. “We have no choice but to fight.”

“The wall has protected us for a thousand years,” said a lord of the Vale.

“And if that wall should fall, what then?” asked Jon. “We would be defenseless and unprepared.”

“And the armies of the Vale and the North would be enough to protect us?” asked Lord Glover.

Jon shook his head. “No.” He looked to Sansa for help.

Sansa stood. “We need more men, more alliances. We need armies from the south to join us.” She looked down to Margaery.

“And where do we expect these armies to come from, Lady Sansa,” asked Littlefinger. He lifted his folded hands and rested his chin upon them. “The rest of the Seven Kingdoms is fighting a war of its own, if you recall.”

“I would have you broker peace with them, Lord Baelish. Leave for Riverrun in the morning and do not return until King’s Landing has given you 20,000 men.” It was not an idea or a suggestion, but a command from the lips of a queen.

“20,000 men?” whispered one of the lords.

“It’s a start,” said Jon. “In the meantime, we will prepare our men for battle. Sword and shield will not be enough. They must learn to fight with fire. Lord Baelish, on your travels I must request you bring back as much burning wood and explosives as possible.”

Margaery’s stomach churned at the thought of the explosives. Green flames and billowing smoke flashed in her eyes. This was madness; white walkers didn’t exist. There were greater things at stake than children’s tales. Yet, something stopped Margaery from voicing her opinion. Perhaps it was the unquestioning acceptance from the lords or perhaps it was the absolute faith with which Jon spoke.

Margaery sat in silence as the lords argued amongst themselves. She knew Sansa was watching her, reading her reaction, testing her. She still did not see how she fit into the Starks’ plans.

When the room quieted down, Lyanna stood. “We know no King other than the King in the North. King Jon, we will follow you wherever you go. Our armies remain yours and we will fight the white walkers by your side until death.”

“Aye,” repeated the lords.

Jon nodded. He glanced down to Sansa. She reached her hand over and smiled reassuringly up to him. “Aye. We will begin training in the morning. Rest well, my lords.”

One by one, the lords and ladies left, some lingering behind for a few moments to chat with King Jon before joining the others. Finally, all that remained was Margaery, Sansa and Jon.

Margaery opened her mouth, then closed it, unsure of where to begin. Finally, the words she’d been thinking slipped from her lips. “This is madness.”

Jon leaned forward on his elbows. “We’re at war.”

“The Whitewalkers are gone, if they ever existed in the first place,” she said.

Jon shook his head. “They’re quite real. I’ve seen ‘em. I’ve fought ‘em.”

Margaery turned to Sansa. “What about you, Sansa. Do you believe him?”

Sansa glanced to Jon, then said, “King Jon was the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. He led men into battle, and these men corroborate his story. I have no reason not trust my brother.”

Jon appeared satisfied with the answer, but Margaery wasn’t.

“Do you believe him?” Margaery asked again.

This time Sansa stared straight into Margaery’s eyes, unflinching. “Yes.”

Margaery chuckled and sighed. “I’ve traded one mad house for another it seems.”

“Madness or not, it’s true,” Jon said. He pulled his chair closer to the table.

Sansa stood and moved to the chair beside Margaery. “Our armies need your help, your grace. When your grandmother’s note arrives, we need to request that she send the remaining Tyrell army north.”

Margaery scoffed. “What makes you believe she would do that?”

“The love she has for her last remaining heir.”

Margaery looked to Jon. “Pardon me, you grace, but I would like to speak with your sister alone.”

Jon raised an eyebrow to Sansa, who nodded. He rose slowly and stepped out, whispering to the guard before he was gone.

Margaery faced Sansa, her fingers curled in a fist on the table. “You said we’d have revenge on Cersei,” she whispered.

“And we will,” Sansa asserted.

“How does sending thousands of men on a suicide mission in the cold to defeat imaginary creatures bring us any closer to that goal?” she hissed

Sansa leaned closer. “If you want to live to see Cersei die, my brother must defeat the Whitewalkers. I can’t say why, but I sense that they’re real. Why would all these men claim it, if not.”

“To escape the bloody wall, perhaps,” Margaery bit.

Sansa ignored the snipe and continued. “Once the Whitewalkers are done, we’ll combine our forces and take down the Queen. Then you’ll have your throne once more. But it will all be meaningless if we win and the Whitewalkers do indeed come South.”

Sansa took Margaery’s hand into her own. “Trust me.”

Margaery’s lips remained in a hard line as she drew her hand back. How could Sansa speak of trust when she didn’t trust Margaery? This, however, was no longer her chessboard. Margaery had to let herself be used as the pawn until she could gain control.

“Fine. I make no guarantees that they will come through,” Margaery said. Without another word, she marched out of room and into the brisk, cool hallway.


End file.
